


Thirteen

by dracopetal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracopetal/pseuds/dracopetal
Summary: After surviving an unimaginable trauma, Draco must learn to adjust to the life after.(Inspired by BBC's Thirteen)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Other(s), Rodolphus Lestrange/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 39
Kudos: 204





	1. The Escape

**Author's Note:**

> hi, so this is my first fic! I was inspired by bbc thirteen (w/ Jodie comer) and it has the same themes as that. Pls heed the tags bc at some parts it does get graphic. this is just a short intro, the other chapters will mostly be longer.
> 
> Find me on tumblr as dracopetal! ;)))

**February 11th 2007**

_Breathe in, breathe out_

His breath catches in his throat, he is not supposed to be here. The door was not supposed to be open, it was never open. He is not allowed to open it. Only Him, never him. He should go back and pretend he didn't leave, pray that He doesn't find out.

Instead he steps forward. His legs feel weak, as if they're about to crumble beneath him. He squints at the light. _There is light._ There is never light without Him, He allows the light. 

The light is coming from the front door. It's directly in his path, a few steps and he can touch it. He stills, listening, but the only sound is his ragged breath. He is alone. 

He takes another step forward, then another and another. He reaches out a hand and brushes his fingertips against the wood. His other hand hovers over the door knob. 

It will be locked, it is always locked, never unlocked, always trapped -

The door clicks. It opens. Another slither of light. It's day.

Draco slowly pulls the door completely open. He cringes and takes a step back as his sensitive eyes burn and the cold hits him. He keeps his eyes half shut. He steps forward again.

One foot in front of the other. The ground is cold and wet under his bare feet. The wind feels powerful enough to knock him over. He stands rooted on the spot. He doesn't know the last time he was allowed outside. Not for a long time. He waits for the crashing footsteps, the shouting and the pain. Nothing happens.

There is a red gate at the bottom of the small garden. He steps towards it. Again. Again. He pushes the latch up and it opens.

For another second he turns back to the house. Rodolphus is going to kill him. He's going to find out that he went outside, and he's going to beat him and strangle him and hold him under in the bath-

Draco runs. He runs faster than he ever has before. He doesn't know where he's running and his legs are aching. He can't breathe properly, can barely gulp down air. He runs and runs and runs.

There is another person. A group of people. He doesn't remember the last time he saw someone else, not really. He doesn't notice until he runs into them.

He falls to the floor, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his cheeks. He can't look at them.

"Woah, you alright, mate?" One of them asks. He's young. Almost as young as -

He glances up. Yellow robes. Wand. Honeydukes sweets.

"Please," He forces the word past his lips _(do not speak unless I fucking tell you to)_."M-My name is Draco Malfoy. I've been, I've been. . ." He can't say it, can't get the words out. He doesn't know what he's been. Where he's been.

He glances up. A short glance at the stranger's look of horror is enough.


	2. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kudos! this got more than I was expecting!

**11th February 2007**

Of all the letters he expected that day, or any day, the urgent howler from Madam Rosmerta telling him that Draco Malfoy had been found was one of them. Not just found, but alive. Not a pile of discarded bones but a living, breathing boy in her backroom. Except Malfoy is no longer a boy. Providing it really was him, he would be a twenty-six year old man. Try as he might, Harry couldn't picture it.

(They've had a few cruel impostor's over the years, and for this reason he does not inform Mr and Mrs Malfoy straight away, he wants to know for sure).

He goes alone, apparating with a crack outside of the Three Broomsticks. His partner Roger Davies - the former Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, was currently swamped with paperwork from their last arrest (someone had been charming kettles to scream when turned on, terrified some poor pensioners) and Harry had opted to go alone instead of letting anyone else take the case.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about Malfoy. He hadn't known what to think when he had first went missing, the school thought that Sirius Black had something to do with it, and Harry had thought that too, but then at the end of the year it became obvious that his godfather had nothing to do with it. There had been other rumours: Malfoy had run away with a muggle girl, he had been killed by a muggle serial killer, he had duelled with another student and the student had killed him (which was the one most of the school had latched onto). As the years passed and the rumours died down he had accepted that something horrible had happened to his former nemesis, and if he was ever found it would be in the form of a decaying body. There had never been a scenario in Harry's mind where Malfoy was alive after all this time, and the Ministry had clearly thought so too because a year after the war, on the sixth anniversary of his disappearance, Draco Malfoy had been officially declared dead.

As he enters the old pub he can see that a small crowd has formed in the doorway. He begins to push through them, and when they realise who's trying to get through the crowd parts naturally for him, but if it didn't then he would flash his badge. Perks of being the saviour.

Once he pushes through the throng of people he notices a concerned looking Hufflepuff standing behind the bar, next to the entrance to the back room. The Hufflepuff's eyes widen when he sees the scar upon his head and he lets Harry through.

A large part of him doesn't really believe that it really is Malfoy. The Malfoy he knew, the real Malfoy, had died in his third year after he vanished from Hogsmeade. He cannot imagine a Malfoy other than the sneering thirteen year old who disappeared into nothing.

He descends down the steps, the chill of the room making goosebumps rise on his arms. Harry gets to the bottom step and momentarily freezes at the sight in front of him.

Madam Rosmerta is whispering to a small, skinny, shivering man. He's sitting hunched over on one of the armchairs, a battered old thing, shuddering and staring into nothing.

"Rosmerta?" Harry says. The man cringes and looks up for a split second, and quickly looks back down, but that look was enough. He feels like he has been hit in the chest with a bludger; Harry was now certain that this was it, this is the real Malfoy and not some nasty prank.

Malfoy's skin has a yellowish tinge to it, and his white hair, which used to be so neat and tidy, falls in a scraggly mess over his shoulders. There is a nasty bruise on his cheek, a cut in his lips, and an absolutely haunted look in his eyes. He's shivering but clearly trying not to, hardly making a sound. He looks so much _smaller_ then he did at thirteen.

"I don't where he came from, but he ran into a group of students who took him to me. I thought they were joking at first, but well. . . It does look like him." She says to Harry. Malfoy doesn't seem to acknowledge them.

Harry nods. "Thank you, I'll take him in." Madam Rosmerta nods and goes back into the bar, likely to tell people to buy a drink or piss off.

He turns to Malfoy and takes a slow step towards him, as not to startle him.

"Hello, Draco." He says. Malfoy looks up and catches his eye for a few seconds before casting his eyes downwards. He doesn't refuse to look at Harry, but his eyes keep flickering away to glance around the room nervously. He's tugging at the material of his robes so much that Harry is slightly surprised that they haven't split.

"Draco, I need to take you to the ministry. I'd like to apparate us, is that okay?" Malfoy swallows and nods.

He slowly stands up, as if it pains him to do so, and shuffles towards Harry. Harry wonders if Malfoy recognises him; if he does he shows no sign of it.

Harry feels a wave of nausea overcome him when he looks at Malfoy's robes. They're a dusty pink in colour, or used to be. The colour has faded over time, and there's multitudes of rips and tears and grime marks, but the ribbons and bows mostly remain. It's a women's robe that only goes down to his knees; he can see the bruises that litter his legs. Malfoy's feet are bare, and it somehow makes him look even more vulnerable.

Harry forces his nausea down and takes Malfoy's arm. His sleeve rolls up, there's bruises that look like fingers marks up his arm.

Harry counts to three and apparates.

* * *

As soon as his feet hit the floor of the Auror Department he feels Malfoy keel over, still latched onto his arm. He's breathing heavily and holding his stomach like he's going to be sick, apparating probably wasn't the best idea. Harry kneels down next to him and Malfoy struggles to get himself under control.

Harry murmurs quiet reassurances until Malfoy gulps audibly and looks up, properly. It's the first time he has looked at Harry without his gaze flickering away. "I'm going to have to take some evidence for testing to confirm it's really you, just procedure for things like this." Malfoy gives a small nod, eyes wide.

He helps Malfoy stand and leads him over to one of the smaller rooms reserved for giving privacy. All the while his mind is racing - he has no real clue what he's meant to be doing. There is no procedure for this, he's going to have to go in blind. He knows he really does need to officially confirm it's him, and he plans on getting someone else to take samples from Malfoy, figuring that he'd rather someone else, and is surprised when he speaks up.

"Stay." Malfoy says, voice scratchy and quiet. Harry turns towards him, hand still on the door handle.

"Are you sure? Do you want me to get the evidence, or someone else?"

A look of something that Harry can't quite determine flashes across his face. Malfoy's fiddling with his sleeves and has gone back to staring at the floor.

"Y-You can." He says after a few moments.

Harry tries to smile reassuringly, he's certain that it comes out like more of a grimace. It's not that he can blame Malfoy for not wanting another stranger in the room, but he doesn't know how to act around him. This isn't the Malfoy he knows and remembers, this is someone else entirely. And then Harry feels stupid, because of course he's different, he's been someone's captive for over a decade.

"Okay, sure. First I'd like to take a hair sample, and then a nail sample and give you a quick look over. Before I do, are you seriously injured anywhere?" He sticks to the scripted talk that's in the training manuals. He's abruptly very glad Hermione forced both him and Ron to revise them when they were in training.

Malfoy shakes his head and Harry goes about getting the nail and hair samples. As he gets close Harry realises just how much Malfoy smells and how dirty he is. He hopes it doesn't show on his face.

After the samples is the most difficult part. He asks, in his softest voice, about a sexual assault kit. Malfoy had been abused, that was obvious, but he still had to ask. Malfoy squeezes his eyes shut doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he nods, and Harry guides him over to the bed.

"Would you be able to take those robes off? There's one here for you to wear." Harry holds out the robes (and a pair of canvas shoes) they use as for victims of violent crime. Malfoy takes it and places it on the bed. He doesn't turn around when he starts undressing, and doesn't make a point of Harry still being in the room, but Harry turns his back anyway.

Malfoy clears his throat to indicate he's finished and Harry takes his robes and puts them in an evidence bag.

The white robe is a stark comparison to Malfoy's discoloured skin. The bruises that litter his body stand out even more, and they cover almost every inch of him. Again, Harry has to swallow down nausea at the sight.

After the assault kit was done (which had definitely been the most awkward thing he had ever done, but couldn't compare to what it was like for Malfoy, who had kept his hands clenched into fists and stared vacantly at the ceiling), he walked Malfoy to one of the more comfier interrogation rooms. Instead of hardback chairs and metal tables, there was a couch and armchairs, a few magazines piled on the coffee table, and it was painted a dull yellow. It was less cold and more human.

Harry left Malfoy on the couch and went to leave to fetch his partner, Roger Davies, for the interview. He began to close the door when Malfoy spoke.

"Leave it open. Please." He whispered.

Harry smiled sadly. "Of course. I'll be back in a minute."

Outside, where he was sure Malfoy couldn't hear him, he leaned against the cold corridor wall.

Fucking hell.

* * *

_Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. In, out._

He can hardly breathe when Potter leaves him alone on the stained, smelly couch. He sits hunched over, as small as he can. He knows that Potter won't hit him, he hasn't shouted even though Draco hesitated to answer his questions. But. What if.

The door to the room was open. Potter left it open, because he asked. Rodolphus would never. Doors are meant to be kept shut and locked.

His hands were shaking. They had been shaking ever since he had ran into the children (he realises now that they were students). After he had forced that single sentence out he had curled on the ground trembling. He was vaguely aware of a couple of the students leaving and returning with a woman, who helped him stand and half carried him into the pub (he knew it was a pub, it was familiar in a way he couldn't remember properly). And then she had sat him down in a chair while he shook and shuddered and tried not to sob.

He hadn't even noticed Potter was in the room until he spoke, and even then he couldn't look at him. When he was apparated he thought he was going to be sick. His stomach flips at the thought, when he was sick Rodolphus had made him -

He takes a calming breath which isn't really that calming. He looks around the room. There's a pile of magazines on the small table. There's no-one coming, so he reaches out a hand and runs his fingers over the glossy material. _The Quibbler_ , it read. It was bright and glossy. He flicked it open, not really looking at the words, just the colours.

He heard the quiet scuffle of footsteps and jumped, slamming it shut. Potter came back smiling with a cup in his hands. Another man followed him. The new man looked angry, but smiled at him.

"Hey, Malfoy, I don't know what you like but I figure you can't go wrong with hot chocolate." Potter holds it out to him.

For a moment he stares wordlessly. He rarely gets gifts, only when he's been good. Potter doesn't look like he's about to snatch it away or pour it over him, so slowly and unsurely he takes the cup.

"Thank you." He mumbles. It's hot against his cold fingers, and it smells delicious. He hesitantly takes a sip and has to stop himself from moaning aloud. It's been so long since he's had something that wasn't bland.

The other man shuts the door. He flinches.

"We just need to shut if for the interview." He smiles again. It's a fake one, he can tell.

Potter sets some things out on the table: a notepad, a pen and something that Draco is certain is being used to record them. Potter presses a button and begins to speak.

"Interview with Harry James Potter," He pauses.

"Roger Malcolm Davies," The other man fills in.

"- at eleven thirty-two am on the eleventh of February two-thousand and seven. We are here to interview a male wizard who alleges that he is Draco Malfoy."

He feels suddenly like he's being strangled. His throat constricts and for a moment he struggles to breathe. "A-Alleges?" He dares to voice his question, but doesn't dare look at them as he does. He's not brave enough for that, the sleeves of his robes are going to tear if he doesn't stop pulling on them but he can't stop.

"We need to get the samples back first, just for legal reasons." Potter says.

"Draco, can you tell us how you ended up in the Three Broomsticks?" The other one, Roger Davies, asks. He's leaning forward in his chair, and Draco feels himself tremble even more. If he's not careful he's going to spill his hot chocolate over himself.

The Three Broomsticks. The pub, that must be where the woman took him. He doesn't remember her name, however he is certain that he has been in there before.

"If you can verbalise, that would be helpful." Davies adds after a minute of silence. Draco nods sharply.

"Um. I. I d-don't know."

Potter's face creases in a frown. He and Davies share a look.

"That's okay, I understand that this is very difficult for you. Draco, you've been a missing person for over thirteen years. Anything you can tell us is helpful."

Draco cringes. He knows, logically, that Potter is right. He knows that it's been thirteen years since he was free, yet hearing it feels surreal. Thirteen years. That means that he has lost half his life. He places his cup on the table and lets his head fall into his hands.

He lets out a quiet sob. Half a _lifetime_. He swallows around another sob. _Breathe in, breathe out._

"The door was open." He starts, voice trembling. "It w-was never open. He f-forgot, I think. He didn't d-do the lock-up."

"Lock up?" Potter questions. He sounds angry, and Draco doesn't know where to look when he answers.

"H-He always kept me i-in the cellar. He didn't d-do the lock-up and the d-door was unlocked."

"Draco, do you know anything about the man that held you captive?" That's Davies asking. Draco nods.

"M-My uncle. R-Rodolphus Lestrange." Potter breathes in sharply and he and Davies share another look. Draco cannot understand what it is that they're communicating with each other, but they do because Davies speaks again.

"Was Lestrange the one who took you from Hogsmeade?"

Draco shakes his head. He wasn't taken, he went willingly. He didn't think, all he knew was that his uncle had escaped Azkaban so well that no-one was even looking for him. He had thought that that had been _impressive_.

"So somebody else abducted you?" Draco shakes his head again. He doesn't want to tell them; it's mortifyingly stupid. But no-one else speaks and he knows that he has to.

"H-He didn't m-make me. I w-went with him. I d-didn't know. What he was going to d-do. . . I knew he was my uncle, a-and he wanted to speak to me so I went with him." His throat aches, it's the most Draco has said for a long time.

"Ah," Is all that Potter says. He _knows_ that he was stupid. If he had been just a little bit smarter then he would've had the common sense not to go with him, to stay in the safety of Hogsmeade. He could've had a normal life.

"Do you know anything else about where you were kept? Anything at all." Draco shakes his head before Potter has even stopped talking.

"H-He kept me in the c-cellar. Didn't let me out." He stares at the floor as the lie passes through his lips easily.

That is something that they cannot know. That is his secret. Only his.

"So just to reiterate: On Saturday the thirtieth of October nineteen-ninety three, your uncle Rodolphus Lestrange lured you from Hogsmeade. Do you know where he took you?"

"A-Away from the people. I-It was n-near a pond, I think. I remember a pond. And then I d-don't remember. It was dark when I woke up. He wasn't th-there."

"Were you in the cellar?" Potter questions. Draco nods.

"And did he keep you in the cellar for thirteen years, until you escaped today?"

Draco nods again. It is not the whole truth, but as much as he wants to give. It's as much as they need to know. If Potter has come to that conclusion on his own then Draco isn't going to correct him. They don't ask him for anymore details on what he has done, what he has had done to him and for that he is grateful. Perhaps they won't ask at all.

"Okay thank-you, Draco. Just one last question: when you went outside was there anything you noticed about the house?" Potter asks. Draco is silent for a moment.

"The gate was red." It's all he can remember at present.

* * *

After they question him they lead him down a corridor. There are some other people walking past, and though they look at him strangely they do not say anything. Some of the staring lingers, and he ducks his head. He feels like he's in a foreign country for the first time with no knowledge of the language.

He's trailing behind him, unsure of where he's going, when Potter turns and gives him a smile.

"It's just down here, just a short walk." He says.

No-one tells him where or what 'here' is. They continue down the corridor for another minute until they come to a glass door and Draco stops in his tracks.

Behind the glass are the people he never thought he would see again. His stomach lurches; it's like looking at ghosts. They spot him as his he sees them. His father stands staring, while his mother is across the room and embracing him. He doesn't hug her back, he can't because he's frozen with shock -

Dead. They're meant to be _dead_. He steps out of his mother's embrace and stares at her with wide eyes. He doesn't know what to say. "Draco?" His mother says. Draco gapes like a fish out of water.

"D-Dead. He said you were _d-dead_." He whispers, and it's his mother that sobs, as she takes him back into her arms. He's stiff for a moment then brings arms up around her and allows himself to be held. He hasn't been held softly in such a long time, Rodolphus never. . . Only when he wanted something.

His father comes forward and instinct kicks in and he flinches backwards. He doesn't mean to, he knows his father won't hurt him, but he can't help it. He catches a look of hurt that flashes across his face and feels guilty. "Draco." His father's voice cracks with the word. He reaches out a hand, and his mother pulls him into their embrace. Draco allows himself to wail like a baby.


	3. The Cellar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief description of rape, blink-and-you'll-miss-it suicide ref, and implied abuse

It is Potter who eventually breaks them apart. Draco clings to his mother as Potter delicately informs him that he needs to answer further questions, and be looked over by a proper Healer. For a few seconds he simply ignores him, pretending that he cannot hear. Then Potter's partner, Davies, repeats him.

"Now?" His mother snaps, and he can hear the glare in her face. He pulls himself out of his mother's arms, still clinging to her hands and turns back to Potter, who looks rather apologetic.

"I'm staying with him." Says his mother, and now he can _see_ the glare. He wipes at his face with his sleeve.

"No, it's f-fine. I can do it." He squeezes his mother's hands and she kisses his hair. Draco lets go of his parents and turns back to Potter and Davies. Davies steps forwards and Draco takes a step back without meaning too, and it seems like they all collectively wince.

"If it's alright with you, Draco, Potter can continue the rest of the interview while I go over some things with your parents, is that okay?" Draco nods.

Potter takes him back down the corridor to the room he was in before. This time on the coffee table there's dozens of sandwiches and a pitcher of water. Draco sits back down and eyes up the food. He knows, really, that they must be for him and his stomach clenches with hunger at the thought of food, but Potter hasn't said that they were for him, and if Potter hasn't said. . .

"You can have as many as you'd like, Draco." Potter says, as if sensing his thoughts. Draco quickly reaches out and grabs a sandwich (cucumber and tuna) and wolfed it down, hardly chewing.

"I would suggest you eat them a bit slower though, I wouldn't want you to choke." Draco flushes. He reaches for another, and this time he eats it slowly. It's been so long since he had anything fresh, it almost feels like heaven.

"So, you said that the house had a red gate. Is there anything else about the outside of the house that you can remember?" Potter asks. Draco chews his sandwich.

"Um. . . The door was red, too. It had a small window in it, i-it made my eyes hurt. I don't remember much about the outside. . . but I think it was white? I'm n-not sure."

Potter doesn't seem annoyed by his half-helpful responses or his stutters, instead he smiles and the notepad writes down his descriptions. He finishes his sandwich and eyes up the plate again. He knows it's greedy, but Potter said he could have as many as he wanted, and he wasn't really paying much attention to him. . .

"Okay, thank you. A white house with a red door with a small window, and a red gate. That narrows it down. Now, when you escaped, do you know how long you ran until the students found you?"

Draco frowns as he tries to think, sandwiches momentarily forgotten. He doesn't know, he had just ran and ran until he couldn't anymore. He hadn't been paying attention, he hadn't even known what directions he had ran in.

"I don't know. I wasn't. . . wasn't thinking."

The notepad doesn't write anything. Potter scratches the scruff on his neck and looks thoughtful. Thirteen years have been kinder to Potter than they have been to him. Potter is no longer a scrawny teenage boy, he's a man now and now Draco is the scrawny one.

"Would you say under ten minutes?" he asks. Draco thinks for a second then nods.

"Okay, that narrows it down some more. If you like, and only if you consent, we could possibly look inside your memories to find a more accurate -"

"No!" Draco shouts without realising. He recoils as Potter reaches out a hand, expecting the slap, but he realises that Potter only meant to calm him. Suddenly he can't look at him. His hands start to shake.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, i-it's j-just, he would s-sometimes go. . . go into my head. If h-he thought I hadn't been a good boy. If I c-couldn't hide what I was thinking he would. . ." He can't finish his sentence, can't force the words out. Saying it means facing it and he _can't_.

Potter reaches across and he still can't reign in his flinch, however he only takes hold of Draco's hand and squeezes them. Potter's hands are warm and comforting. "That's okay, it's completely your choice. The description you've given us is helpful enough. You're being very brave." He adds. Draco has the sudden urge to snort; he doesn't feel brave. He feels like a child, like the child he was when Rodolphus took him to the cellar. He has never felt brave. If he was brave then maybe he could've. . .

Potter shifts in his chair and looks over at the notepad, his lip between his teeth. "Would it be possible to give a description of Rodolphus Lestrange? The last recorded one is from Azkaban records when he was originally sentenced in the eighties."

Draco's mind comes to a screeching halt. He can't think about him without instinctively wanting to either flee or curl up into a ball. Even when he tries now he can only conjure a blurred image of fists with rings that bruised and steel-toed boots kicking his legs apart, of hot stinking breath on his neck and a crushing weight on his back as he, he -

"Tall." Is all he can say. He swallows. The two small sandwiches he ate are now making him feel sick. The pen taps against the pad; he absently wonders why it isn't a quill.

"Can you think of anything else? Anything at all?" Potter prompts. He shakes his head. He picks at a loose thread in the robes he was given, unable to meet Potter's gaze. A minute passes and Potter must realise that he isn't going to break the silence because he sees him nod out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay, that's fine. Now, can I ask you about the cellar, Draco? Specifically when you first woke up, just as much as you can remember." His voice has become soft.

It takes Draco a minute to be able to think straight. ". . . It was dark. I c-couldn't see. I. . .I w-was cold; he had taken my clothes and p-put me in one of the ones th-that I was w-wearing when. . . today. I was on the floor, it was cold and d-damp. Chained up. N-No-one came, f-for a long time.

And then th-there was a hand. . . over my. . . my mouth. He d-didn't. . . not that t-time. He w-wanted it to be proper. I-It wasn't proper y-yet. H-He just spoke to me, I think, but I can't remember what. Then he left and I d-don't remember."

The pen is writing again. "Okay, thank you. Just another couple of questions and then a proper Healer will look you over. How did you keep track of time in the cellar?" His voice is still soft. Hesitant, even.

Draco looks down, his hair making a curtain around his pale face. "I didn't. Time was just when he was there a-and when he wasn't."

"Did he come into the cellar regularly, would you say?" Potter asks. Draco shrugs.

"N-Not at first. He u-used to just give me food, b-but I was always hungry a-and it was never enough. H-He never gave p-proper food. . ." He trails off.

"Proper food?"

"Always tinned. H-He never let me have a s-spoon. . . Y-You only got a s-spoon if you were good, but I never w-was." He answered woefully. Potter looks away for a moment at that, before he breathes out heavily and looks back over the notepad.

"Okay, Draco. There is some over things we need to ask but for now I'd rather let you go home and resume the interview tomorrow. For now, we'll find the house and collect evidence to confirm your testimony. And tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, we'll continue the interview, how does that sound?"

Draco nods, unsure if he's being asked a question or not. Easier to agree. Potter puts the notepad in his pocket and stands, gesturing at Draco to follow him.

Potter takes him down another corridor, different to the other one. He struggles to keep up, unused to walking to far and so fast, but Potter waits for him to catch up. He leads him to another room like the one he was first in, and there is already a woman in there. She's a bit shorter then Potter, her blonde hair tied tightly at the back of her head and with a swollen belly. It takes Draco a few seconds to realise that she's pregnant and not just fat.

"Hello, I'm Healer Abbott. I would just like to give you a quick check up, it'll only take fifteen minutes. Do you want Harry to stay?" She nods towards where Potter lingers by the door. Draco twists his sleeves and shrugs.

"I-I don't mind. . ." He whispers, eyes darting between them.

"I'll wait outside. Just shout if you need anything." And then he's gone, shutting the door with a quiet click.

Healer Abbott (and he is certain that he's seen her before) is gentle and kind. She takes his height and weight, and tells him that he's extremely underweight and gives him a diet plan that is also being shared with his parents. She takes his hands and runs her wand over them, and then rubs a thick yellow paste on the discolouration around his left wrist, but doesn't ask where it came from, or how the other scars on his wrists were made. She heals the scabs on his knees and the small cuts on his feet and the cut in his lips. She casts an Episkey on the pinkie and ring finger of his right wrist. When it comes to the bruises on his neck and cheek, she gently rubs the paste on as he tries not to flinch too much.

She asks him to if he could pull down his robe to see his chest and back, and when he pulls it down to his waist he hears the sharp intake of breath. He knows it's a mess, half healed welts litter his back, and his sides are covered by bruises in various stages of healing, left by Rodolphus when he had gotten angry at him for crying.

Abbott takes the jar with the yellow paste and gently rubs it over the bruises. "It's a bruising paste; give it an hour and the bruises will be near enough gone." She explains when he winces at a particularly painful bruise.

After his chest and back are done he pulls his robe back on, and Abbott asks him about the other half, saying she won't force him but he really does need to get himself looked at properly. She says she can get his mother or father to come in if he wants, but Draco quickly shakes his head; the thought of that is mortifying. He can't do it alone though. When Potter had done it it was just a quick spell, however this is a full exam, and he can't stand the thought of all the touching and prodding.

In the end, after Draco had stood silently for a minute, Abbott calls Potter back in, and Draco holds his hand in a crushing grip as she does her exam. He doesn't seem to mind, even when his hand turns white. Potter just lets him, and he finds that it keeps him in the present, where it really is for his own good and he isn't being forced.

After her exam is done and she has applied the bruising paste to his legs and hips Potter turns around as he composes himself. Healer Abbott is looking over his file, tapping her quill against the small table in the corner.

"That's everything, thank you. My main concern is your weight, but with the right foods that'll be fine in no time. Like I said, the bruising will mostly disappear within the hour, but as for your fingers I would suggest just leaving them to heal, try not to touch them, and they'll be fine in a week. As for everything else, you'll likely struggle to do much walking or movement in general for a while, you're muscles are very underused. But just by walking around as you are now helps, so continue to move about everyday and they'll get better."

She scrawls something on a piece of parchment and passes it to him.

_Mind Healer: Carol White. Office number: 5, Colbridge Road._   
_Ministry Approved._

Draco stares at it, and then back at Abbott. "Not today, I think Harry just wants to get you home to your parents, but perhaps tomorrow, White wants to schedule an appointment with you. She can see at your home or here. Don't worry, you don't have to choose now." She says, seeing the expression that comes across his face. He's not good with making quick choices anymore.

And then Abbott smiles again and asks if there's anything he wants to ask. He shakes his head; he just wants to go home and be with his parents.

* * *

His mother hugs him again when he's led back to where they are. She wraps her arms around him in a way that he can vaguely recall her doing when he was younger, so much younger when his only problem was a tummy ache or a skinned knee. He leans into her touch and smells the familiar scent of her perfume.

"I love you so much." She whispers in his ear. It's strange to hear, it still hasn't quite sunk in that Rodolphus lied about them being dead. For years he thought that they had been killed, that even if he escaped he would have nothing, that Rodolphus was the only person he would ever have.

His father is across the room talking to Davies. Draco watches them over his mother's shoulder, when his father catches his eye he looks away.

His mother lets go of him and holds his hand, guiding him over to the floo. "We'll go through first, your father still has some things to sort out with the Aurors. He'll be back within the hour." She pinches some floo powder.

"Malfoy Manor!"

They step into the fireplace and disappear into green flames. 

* * *

Truthfully, Draco never thought that he would see the Manor again. Even before Rodolphus told him lies about his parents, the weeks had turned into months and years, and he had given up hope of being rescued, and he had never seriously had any hope of escaping. He had dreamt, early on, of Him forgetting to lock him up, of leaving him unattended and just running, but he never had. Until today. He's not sure if what feels less real: His escape or what came before it.

When he stumbles out of floo he rights himself against an armchair, and realises that it's one of their living rooms. It's a huge room with high ceilings, and Draco instantly feels exposed. He wraps his arms around himself as his mother dusts herself off.

There is a sudden crack and a house elf pops in and Draco gasps and shrinks back, the sudden noise startling him.

"Would Mistress Malfoy and. . .Sir? Like some tea?" It asks in its squeaky voice. Draco doesn't like the way it's big eyes are looking at him, and he steps back. He stays away from it and moments later realises that his mother is speaking to him.

"Would you like something, darling?"

It was such an innocuous question. Such a normal question, but he wasn't able to speak. It was like his throat had closed up the moment he had stepped through the floo. He didn't know how to answer all the questions, His questions were usually just rhetorical. He didn't ask if Draco wanted anything, he had just gotten what he was given and usually that was nothing good.

"Draco?" The sudden hand his mother places on his shoulder is meant to be comforting, but he can't help jumping away from it. His heart starts to hammer in his chest, so much so that Draco thinks she must be able to hear it. He tugs on a strand of hair, trying to ground himself before he is unable to breathe. That worked sometimes; focusing on the pain and not the panic.

He distantly hears his mother say something to the elf and she disapparates with another pop, which Draco jumps at again. He turns to properly look at his mother from under his hair, and is startled to notice how much older she looks. He had almost forgotten her face in the cellar, could only recall a blurred image of her, but now he realises how much thirteen years had aged her. The wrinkles around her face are more prominent, and it looks like she hasn't slept for days

Draco swallows, and swallows again, "M-My old room. . ." He starts. He hopes his mother will catch the question and finish it. He's grateful when she nods and tells him that of course he can see his bedroom.

She leads him through the manor, up staircases and corridors that are both familiar and not. He has to stop at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. He can't remember the stairs being so difficult before, he used to run up and down them all day with no problem.

_Draco's Room_

The sign on the oak door is the same as he remembers, silver with his name in green cursive, the same sign that had been on his door since he six years old and left the nursery. He brushes his fingers against it as he turns the knob.

Inside, bedroom was what he remembered it being. His bed, King-size with silk sheets was in the middle of the room, with two doors beside it, one leading to his en-suite and the other leading to his wardrobe. His desk is still there, and his bookshelves are where they have always stood, books in alphabetical order. What really catches his attention, though, is the green and silver stuffed dragon on his bed sheets. He makes his way over to it, and when he picks it up he sees that it is the one from his childhood. It was the simplest toy he owned, but also the one he played with the most. He looked at the tag, and sure enough a shaky D.M. is scrawled on it. He was two when he got it and it somehow hadn't fell apart after all this time.

"You used to take Snuffles with you everywhere when you were little. Never let it out of your sight." His mother says behind him. "You used to make me swear not to tell anyone that you slept with it up until Hogwarts. And you thought about taking it with you. Do. . . do you remember that?"

Draco nods. "Yeah. . ." He clutches Snuffles to his chest. He was never allowed small comforts, before.

They stand in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, Draco by his bed, his mother hovering in the doorframe, unsure of herself. That makes his insides feel funny, he doesn't know if he's remembering wrong but he can never recall her being so uncertain.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat or drink? You're ever so thin." She says in a rush. Again, Draco shakes his head.

"No. . . I smell." He says. "I n-need a shower."

"I can run you a bath, if you'd like?"

"No!. . . Sorry, s-sorry but. . . no baths. I'll shower. D-Do I have any clothes?" He can't stomach the thought of a bath, at least not for a while.

His mother smiles, and even though he's only half looking he knows it's fake. She pulls open the door of his walk-in-wardrobe and comes back with a pair of silk pyjamas.

"I had to guess your size, I'm afraid. I didn't get much else, just some casual clothes, but well, we'll have to time to get more. I'll leave you to it, darling." His chest does a funny thing at the word 'darling'. It's the second time she's called him that since arriving home; he finds that he rather missed it.

In his bathroom, he doesn't go near the bath. Instead places Snuffles on the toilet seat, and strips off the robe they gave him at the Ministry. He sets the shower on the hottest it'll go, however before he gets in he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

He hasn't seen himself in years, not properly. Rarely was he allowed mirrors, and when he caught a fleeting glance at his reflection he hated what he saw and tried not to look for too long. Draco thought he looked ghastly, skeletal and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes and skin so pale it burned. The bruising on his face and back hasn't quite disappeared , and if he turns just right he can see the bumps of his spine, and doesn't even have to try to count his ribs.

He tears himself away from his reflection, climbs into the shower. Once in, he sinks to his knees and sobs, digging his torn nails into the scabs on his knees until his blood mixes with the dirty water down the drain.

* * *

  
After seeing Malfoy off into the floo Harry had had to step outside. He was so furious.

He had done his best to not let his anger show during the interview, but when Malfoy mentioned that he wasn't even allowed a fucking spoon he had had to look away to compose himself. A spoon. Not even fucking allowed that. And then there was the thing with the Legilimency. Even Malfoy's mind hadn't been his own.

He breathed out and rubbed a hand over his face. Other Aurors were searching for the house as Davies was talking through the procedure for these types of cases (which Harry was sure Davies was half making-up on the spot) with Lucius Malfoy. When they found the house they would storm it, but Harry didn't have much hope of finding Lestrange. Death Eaters were never easy.

Still, the house would give forensic evidence to support Malfoy's testimony, and hopefully they'd be able to trace a magical signature and track Lestrange through it. What Malfoy had said about being lured near a pond also was backed up by the previous investigation: three weeks after he first disappeared: the wand of Draco Malfoy had been found in a pond just outside of Hogsmeade. As far as he knew it had been given back to the Malfoy's after being analysed to death, but at that point they had found nothing useful.

Deciding to make himself useful he grabbed himself and Davies a coffee from the canteen. While waiting for it to pour itself he spots a flash of ginger, just as Ginny Weasley turns and spots him over her shoulder. To Harry's surprise she almost runs towards him, elbowing some poor bloke out of her way in her haste to reach him.

"Harry! Is it true?" She hisses in a whisper, looking around for any eavesdroppers as a casts a discreet _Muffilio_.

"Um, is what true?" He asks as a cold feeling spreads through his stomach. Please, please, please tell me no-one knows about -

"What they're saying about Malfoy! People are saying that you've found him alive." Ginny stares at him with her big brown eyes and waits for an answer as he flounders.

"Well, yes, no, maybe but really - wait, whose saying we found him?"

"So you did find him! What the fuck happened to him? It's been what twelve, thirteen years? Actually, don't tell me. You'll probably get fired. And I came to see dad - I haven't seen him a couple of weeks and thought I'd surprise him at work, and then I ran into MacMillan, and he said that he swore he saw you walking with someone who looked a bit like Malfoy when he was handing in some paperwork or something, and then Cormac said that he and his cousin were in the Broomsticks when suddenly this kid on a Hogsmeade visit came running in, shouting about some man and then five minutes later Rosmerta's with some skinny bloke in the back who says he's Draco Malfoy." Ginny said in a rush.

"Do you papers know?" His refusal to confirm is what ultimately confirms it. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head in disbelief.

"If they don't already they will soon." She said. Out of the corner of his eye Harry notices that his coffee has poured itself.

"Fuck." He muttered under his breath, then louder to Ginny "Listen, I really can't talk right now, but I'll see you next saturday, yeah?" He's already grabbing his coffee and turning away from her as he says it. He quickly makes his way back into the Auror department, and when he comes back he sees that both Davies and Lucius Malfoy are gone.

He made his way back to his office, practically walking into anyone that's in his path. Once in his office he sets the coffee down on his desk, and is about to go fetch Davies when Robards enters the room, leaving the door ajar. Robards was the Head Auror, a position that Harry knew he was favoured to fill when Robards stepped down. He was a fair man, but also strict. "Sir," Harry greeted him.

"How far are you in the Malfoy case?" Robards was never one for small talk, always cutting straight to the chase. Harry had always liked that about him, and the fact that he never treated Harry any different to other Aurors was also a bonus.

"We've got a basic testimony from him, and a description of the house; it's being tracked now. We may be able to trace Lestrange's magical signature, if we don't find him at the property, as I doubt he'll be there."

Robards nodded, his expression sombre. "Poor lad. Thirteen years, living with that. How is he?"

Harry sighed. "I don't really know, if I'm honest. Terrified, I'm still not sure if he even recognised me. Sir, what's the procedure for this?"

Robards was silent for a moment, thinking. "There isn't one." He said finally. "We've never had a case like this in the Wizarding World, and even in the muggle world these things are rare. Do what you believe is fit. I want constant updates on this case, and try to keep this as private as possible."

Harry grimaced. "I think they already know the basics, but we'll keep it as contained as possible."

At that moment a letter in the shape of a paper airplane flew into the room and landed on Harry's desk. Harry turned away from Robards to quickly read it, then looked back up.

"They've found the house!"

* * *

The small terrace house on the outskirts of Hogsmeade didn't look as foreboding as Harry expected it to. It looked like any other house on the street, with half dead flowers in hanging baskets and peeling paint. The house would've been white when it was painted, but over time had became almost grey with dirt, and the red door had a small window in it, just like Draco described.

The front window had been shattered by the Aurors who had led the raid. That wasn't Harry's job on this case, he and Davies were acting more like muggle detectives. As it was quickly becoming a high-profile case Aurors had been pulled from all over the department to assist with finding the house and Lestrange.

As he had predicted, the house was empty. Likely Lestrange fled as soon as he realised Draco was gone. He entered the house with Davies, and saw that the door to the cupboard under the stairs had been taken off it's hinges. He noticed another Auror standing half in the doorframe, cursing to himself.

"Oh for fu- Oh! Potter, Davies! I think we've found the cellar, but this second door won't bloody open." Terry Boot's turned to look at them, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. He was pointing his wand at the door and trying every unlocking spell he could think of.

Terry stepped aside to let Harry and Roger get a better look. The door was steel, and looked to be extremely heavy. There was a keypad to the left of it, and Harry thought it was odd for a Death Eater to use something muggle.

He voiced his confusion, and Davies hummed in thought. "Perhaps he thought if he used less magic, he wouldn't get caught? If that was what he was thinking then he would've been right."

"Mmm," Harry mumbled in agreement, studying the keypad. The numbers one, two and six were worn down more than the others. Harry was fairly certain that most passwords were four numbers, so one had to be repeated. . . Wasn't it usually a birthday?

"When was Rodolphus born?"

"Er, 1952? Thirteenth of March."

Harry tried 1952, then 1303, then 1352. None worked. He sighed. He could hear other Aurors shifting through the rooms above him, and wondered if they were having more luck. "It's most likely to be a birthdate, I think. Maybe it's Draco's. . ." He said that last part mostly to himself as he tried as many combinations with his birthdate as possible, but none of them worked. He swore loudly. "Can we just _Bombarda_ it?" He asked Boot, who had been watching the entire time, arms crossed over his chest.

"No, we did try that, but the door's warded against most spells like that. Some powerful wards, old but still there. They've been there since before the war, and they're a bit like some that were used during the war." He said.

Harry stared at the keypad with hatred. Trust Lestrange to make it even more difficult than it already was. Lestrange had been a loyal Death Eater during both wars, but hadn't done as much damage as most had in the second; Harry supposed this was why. They had had wards like this during the war, and sometimes it took days to get passed them, but with Lestrange gone they didn't have days. They needed to get in, and needed to get in now. Boot was still talking to Davies, something about the wards, and Harry caught something about the Dark Lord, and almost without thinking he typed twelve twenty-six into the keypad. A light above it flashed green and great door opened with a click.

Harry shoved his shoulder into it to open it fully, and found himself staring at yet another door. A thick wooden one this time, and Harry counted seven muggle locks on it. Again, strange that he would use muggle ways to lock up.

"What did you just try?" Davies asked with surprise.

"Twelve twenty-six. Tom Riddle's birthdate. I just thought: loyal Death Eater. It wasn't exactly obvious." They went quiet for a moment. Even nearly a decade on, no-one was comfortable talking about Tom Riddle.

Harry hesitantly reached out to touch the locks, tensing for a blast of magic, but there was nothing, not even a faint trace of magic. Still tense, he unlocked all of them. He half-expected another door, but instead there was a staircase.

It was completely dark, and all three of them cast _Lumos_ , and then followed the steps down into the cellar. The chill made Harry shudder, and he felt more than a little ill. Even with the doors now open there was a powerful stench, and it drew him to the far corner. The closer he got the more unbearable the smell got, and he had to cast a bubble-head charm.

In the corner was a bucket filled with. . . Harry turned away. Scattered at his feet were used condoms. In the opposite corner was a tattered old mattress, thin with some of the springs sticking out. A dirty blanket had been thrown over it and was now being examined by Davies, and there was a chain attached to the wall, with it's cuff by the mattress. Harry continued to look around, and saw hooks in the ceiling. Harry didn't want to think about what they were used for. 

What kind of a life had Draco lived for thirteen years? In this dank cellar, with nothing but a pot to piss in, surrounded by the aftermath of his abuse? How had he not gone insane? Harry, very rarely, had nightmares about his cupboard at the Dursley's, but that was almost nothing compared to this. They had had limits, but it seemed like Rodolphus had had none.

Boot was kneeling by the mattress, looking at a small pile of grubby books, having also cast a bubble-head charm.

"A lot of the pages of these have been torn out, and . . . look at this!" Something fluttered out of one of them and Boot passed it to Harry, who unfolded it and looked at it in confusion.

It was a scrawled picture of three figures, done in crayons. One was twice the size of the other two and was drawn at the top of a scribbled staircase, with big fangs dripping with blood. One had blond hair and was in the middle of the page, holding a wand? Or perhaps it was a sword; Harry, despite having spent years deciphering Teddy's drawings, couldn't make it out. The third figure was smaller then both, with black hair and a triangle dress, also holding a wand or a sword. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. Surely, it couldn't really have been done by a child? Because that would have to mean that Draco wasn't alone in the cellar, and he would've mentioned that.

"Looks like something a little kid would draw, don't it? Probably a girl with black hair, assuming the others are Malfoy and Lestrange." Boot suggested. Harry handed it back to him.

"He didn't mention that anyone else was down here, and well. . . where is she? Unless she was here, and Rodolphus took her with him - Fuck! I'll send a patronus." Harry almost ran up the stairs, and cast a patronus to tell Robards as quickly as possible that Rodolphus may have a child with him. Once casted, he stayed outside the cellar, staring down at the darkness. He thought about the drawing: was there someone else down there with him? Why hadn't Draco said? Or. . . was the picture Draco's? Did he draw it? Pretend there was someone else down there with him? Harry didn't think it made much sense either way.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts, and he spun around to see a senior Auror, Quentin Cresswell, grim-faced and shaking his head.

"Upstairs, there's some things you and Davies need to see. See if they match your Draco's testimony." Cresswell was still shaking his head, looking and sounding torn between horror and disbelief. Harry followed Cresswell up the stairs with dread weighing heavily on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on this chap:
> 
> In Thirteen Carol White is Mark White's Mother, in this I decided to make her Draco's therapist, as I didn't want to use a pre-existing character + her office is at '5 Colbridge Road' which is where Mark held Ivy captive
> 
> Healer Abbott being Hannah Abbott, im fairly certain in cannon that her and Neville don't have children, but for this fic I decided that they would.
> 
> The 'bruising paste' is actually a bruise potion invented by Fred and George in HBP.
> 
> (Voldemort was born on 31/12/26)
> 
> I wasn't sure where I was going to end this but Harry's pov took me forever to write so I figured that 5,000 words were enough for this chapter. And this is also the third attempt at posting because my WiFi has been soooo bad recently but idk why. (also I feel like my paragraphs are super short? Are they or am I just being paranoid?)
> 
> thank you for all the kudos/comments!!


	4. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this has taken me super long to update, ive been both super busy and super sick. same warnings for mentions of rape, but nothing too graphic. im not rly happy with some of this but its been in my notes for the past fortnite so I figured I should just edit it and get it posted b4 I forget lol

Cresswell leads Harry to the bedroom farthest away from the stairs. Inside is swarming with other Aurors. Harry stares at the back of his head as he tries to imagine how much worse this can get. Cresswell leads Harry over to the battered, open wardrobe by the window.

"Your Draco was wearing something similar to these, wasn't he? All of them are women's robes, and some are muggle dresses, but they're mostly in the same sizes as the one you got from him." Cresswell says as Harry looks through the robes himself. They _were_ very similar to the one's Draco had been wearing, faded and stained. Had - Had Lestrange not allowed Malfoy to wear normal robes? Most modern womens robes weren't even _that_ feminine, many of the ones hung in the wardrobe sported bows and ruffles, which were more traditional.

"Also, Potter, we found this." Harry turned to see an Auror with a thick beard, who he could vaguely remember passing a few times in the Ministry, levitating a long blond hair from the pillow on the bed into an evidence bag. "Figured it was probably Malfoy's, and there's blood and, well, semen stains on the mattress. We'll send them for testing."

"So, he was allowed out of the cellar?" Davies was suddenly leaning up against the doorframe, watching. Harry shrugged his shoulders, uncertain.

"I suppose so, but really, given the circumstances you can't blame him for not mentioning it in the interview. Ask him tomorrow, see what he says - " As he spoke he noticed something on the bedframe gleaming in the sunlight . He reached towards it, and realised it was a pair of metal handcuffs. Harry caught Davies' eye, who looked just as disturbed as Harry felt.

"Whenever I think this fucking case won't get any worse, it really fucking proves me wrong." He fumed. This whole day had left a sour taste in his mouth, it made him feel like he really was going to vomit.

"Poor fucking Malfoy. He was a right twat in school, but Jesus Christ." He muttered. Then something underneath the bed catches his eye and he kneels down on the carpet, reaches down then drags a large wooden box out. Davies pulls off the lid and his eyes widen as he levitates out another pair of handcuffs. He waves his wand and more items float out: muggle duct tape, a jar of Dittany, pair of scissors and a leather belt. Davies studied the belt.

"I think there's blood on this, we'll have to check the scissors too. Do you think that Lestrange, I don't know, used these as punishment, or something?" By now the other Aurors had stoppped to look, and the rest of them too looked sickened.

Harry stared at the small wooden box, and again wondered if this case could realistically get any worse. During the war they had all seen their fair share of horror, him perhaps more than most, but never such focused cruelness. He recalled that same feeling of horror at the torture victims during the war; some of which, like Luna Lovegood, had been his classmates.

Luna had been in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor. (Narcissa Malfoy herself had fled the country in the summer of 1996, after Sirius had been killed at the Ministry. From what he had overheard at the time the Dark Lord had been furious with Lucius Malfoy for having a weak wife, but Lucius stayed in the Manor, refusing to leave the country without Draco, and in the end he had actually saved his life by deliberately not identifying him, despite the consequence of the Dark Lord's wrath). The Death Eaters that had swarmed the place believed Luna had known where he, Hermione and Ron were and had tortured her relentlessly. When they had found her she had spoken in stutters or not at all, and had bruises and scaring all over her body. It was only recently that her hands had mostly stopped shaking, an after effect of the Cruicatus curse. Feeling sick to his stomach, Harry left the room and stumbled back down the stairs, and wondered, not for the first time, if something like that had happened to Luna too.

He made it out into the front garden and stood amongst shards of broken glass as he took deep breaths in an attempt to not upchuck his breakfast over a crime scene. Just as he was succeeding in doing so, an elderly woman hobbled out of a neighbouring house and stopped at the barrier erected around the garden.

"Apologies, ma'am, but this is a crime scene so we cannot allow-" He began, only to be interrupted.

"No, I know. I heard that the bloke who lived here was being investigated, never thought it would be a Death Eater. He was very quiet." She tutts. Harry joins her at the barrier.

"Did you know the man who lived here? Did you ever see him?" Harry questions.

The lady nods, her grey curls bouncing with the movement. "Yes, but not very well. I sometimes just saw him leave the house, never saw him in Hogsmeade. Only ever exchanged polite hellos. You - people are saying you found a boy in that house. I did see, I think, a boy a few years back. . ." She trails off, as if unsure of herself. Harry encourages her to continue, realising that he may have found a potential witness. "Well, it must've been years ago now. I would assume that he most Apparated or used a portkey to go about his business, but I remember one time he was banging about in the house, he was so bloody loud when he left, and he came out with a younger lad. I assumed it was a son or something. I was taking my rubbish out, and I did say hello but the lad just looked at me, and then he grabbed his arm and went to the end of the road and Apparated away. Didn't see or hear them come back in, and I never saw him again. Poor lad. . ." She shakes her head, wearing a look that Harry's been seeing alot today, on his own face included. A mixture of pity and horror.

Harry takes her name and asks her to make a statement, she makes a brief one there and then but he knows he will have to bring her in sooner or later for further questioning. After she's trotted off back to her house Harry stares down at the shattered flower pots underneath the equally broken window. So, he muses, Malfoy had been allowed out. Had it only been that one time? Or had it been a semi-regular thing? And above all, why had Malfoy so clearly lied in his statement?

Well, Harry could understand that. The Malfoy from school is vastly different from the one who had been someones captive for thirteen years, but he supposed Malfoy wanted to hang onto the last scraps of his pride. It must've been difficult for him, to tell his childhood nemesis how his own uncle had. . . _hurt_ him so bad. Though despite that, Malfoy hadn't seemed too bothered that it was him in his interview, which then, Harry thought, wasn't surprising because he had _bigger_ problems.

Poor Draco sodding Malfoy.

* * *

Draco finally finds the strength to get out of the shower after nearly two hours have passed, and he's shivering under the spray. His joints have gone stiff and he winces as he bends down to grab his towel. As he does so he catches a look at himself in the mirror, the bruising on his face and back have gone, but he's still a sickly pale, and the bags under his eyes make him look that a dead man walking. Why Rodolphus had ever wanted to do _that_. . . it didn't make sense _(but less so because of his disgusting appearance)._

He quickly dries himself off, it feels good to be properly clean again. Whenever Rodolphus had wanted him clean he would ever use a spell or take him to the bathroom. The thought of it makes his stomach twist uneasily.

_Strong hands on his shoulders, so tense he was trembling. He wished he would just know when it was -_

_And suddenly he was under, his nose and throat burned as he choked under the water, weakly trying to push His bruising hands off,_

_And then he's back up again, coughing and choking and spluttering. He counts three seconds and he's back under, lungs burning, making his chest tight. He's going to die like this. He's going to die. He's going to finally kill him._

He snaps himself out of it, refusing to be pulled into that part of his mind for any longer. He's home now. Home and safe, he repeats as a motto in his head as he pulls on the pyjamas his mother gave him. They're far too big, dwarving his small frame, the sleeves hanging over his hands. Once upon a time in another life they probably would have fit perfectly. It bothered him much more than it should have done that they didn't.

Back in his bedroom, Draco sits on the soft silk sheets of his bed, still slightly disbelieving that he's back here. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, when he thought about escaping he never got this far. He had tried once, only once, when in the cellar but. . . he didn't try again. His bedroom looks the same almost, but something is terribly off.

But then he thinks it's not his bedroom that's not right, it's _him_. Twenty-six in the room he had last been in when he was thirteen. It's the same as it was, as he remembers it being, not even a layer of dust among his things. If he tries really hard, for a few seconds he can pretend that nothing has changed, that he's still thirteen and home for the holidays. Only for a few seconds, before reality comes crashing back.

He doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Before, he can vaguely remember spending his spare time flying, playing chess and reading. He had only been allowed the latter, accumulating only a few books that he had almost memorised them word for word. Sometimes, in the beginning, Rodolphus had allowed him to draw. Only in the beginning had he scribbled mindlessly to try and distract himself, but after a while he had stopped.

He suddenly hears footsteps nearing his bedroom and tensed without even thinking, hunching down in an instinctive attempt to make himself smaller as someone knocks at the door.

"Draco?" It's his father's voice. Draco doesn't respond, but the door opens anyway.

His father stands in the open doorway, and Draco looks at him properly for the first time. Like mother, he had aged considerably. His white-blond hair is almost greying, and he looks so much more tired than he remembers. He sounds tired when he speaks, too.

"Draco, your mother has prepared a light dinner, do come join us?" It's phrased like a question but it shouldn't be, his father isn't meant to be uncertain. This is not the man he remembers. Still, he follows his father down the winding corridors of the manor until they reach one of the lesser used dining rooms, not the main one that he remembers using, which he thought was a little strange, but decided not to say anything. When he was younger they hadn't used whole sections of the manor, perhaps they had only used the main dining room for dinner parties.

This smaller dining room is nicer than the main one was. The manor's main dining room had been much larger, but formal and gloomy, whereas this one was much warmer and comfortable.

Draco felt very underdressed in his too-big pyjamas as his mother pulled out a chair for him. Both his parents were wearing lavish robes, not quite formal but not near casual either; his parents had never done casual.

His father sits at the head of the table next to Draco. Mother, already seated opposite him, sets a plate of roast dinner in front of him. He would've thought the house-elf would've been doing that, but she's nowhere to be seen. Does his mother cook now? Then, he thinks, perhaps his earlier reaction had something to do with it. He wasn't scared of the elf, the loud noises and the way it popped up out of nowhere had just startled him.

Draco feels their eyes on him as he grasps his knife and fork. He can't quite recall how to hold them properly. They feel foreign in his hands, like he's a child and learning how to write his name for the first time. He twists them in his hands before holding them in his fists, he knows it doesn't look right but he can't make his fingers work properly.

Jerkily, he manages to cut off a piece of chicken. It feels dry in his mouth, he chews and chews but it doesn't seem to do anything. When he's finally able to swallow it gets stuck in his throat and he chokes. He reaches for a glass and realises that his hands are shaking. He wipes away the few drops that escape his mouth with his sleeve. When he looks up, both his parents are staring. He shrinks away from them in his chair.

"Draco, are you. . . alright?" Mother asks tentatively, her face a mixture between worry and confusion. He has to fight the insane urge to laugh hysterically in her face. No, no he's not _alright_. He doesn't know what's wrong with him - he's _home_ , he's _safe_ , but he still feels as if it's not real and he's going to wake up handcuffed next to Rodolphus, or down in that stinking basement. "Draco -" Father reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, and in the back of his mind he recognises that the gesture is meant to be comforting, but all the same he cannot help the gasp and the violent flinch. He flinches so violently that he topples out of his chair and onto the floor, landing painfully on his backside.

His father doesn't seem to know what to do. He stares at Draco as if he is a stranger, clearly taken aback by his bizarre reaction. Mother, however, is out of her chair and by his side, pulling him into a hug on the carpet as he shakes and shakes, and he doesn't even know _why_ he's shaking so badly.

"I'm s-sorry, mother, -" Draco isn't sure of what he's about to say but it turns out that it doesn't matter. His mother tutts, "Don't apologize, darling. You've absolutely nothing to be sorry for." He feels her lips against the top of his head, and he forces himself to loosen his limbs. It doesn't help much.

He's not hungry anymore, he wasn't really in the first place. Years of being half-starved had lessened his appetite. Rodolphus used to regularly starve him, and once he made Draco go over a fortnight without eating anything. His throat constricts at the thought, the sharp pang of hunger had made him beg for even a small morsel, and He had delighted in eating in front of him and ignoring his pleading. . .

He's snapped out of his thoughts by a hand on his arm and his mother asking if he's still hungry. He shakes his head. Draco knows he'll likely regret it later, but he can't sit there, not with his parents looking at him like he's some kind of. . . some kind of freak! At least his mother is trying; Lucius is still sat at the table and looking at him as if he's suddenly grown an extra head.

But perhaps that's what it really is like for him. They lost a normal teenage boy and got back a trembling, stuttering ghost in oversized pyjamas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having an issue with comments and am wondering if anyone can help: basically when someone comments on my fic/responds to a comment on another fic, it doesn't show up in my inbox. Therefore I have to check the fic to see comments. the first two comments on this fic came up but after that they stopped and im just wondering if anyones had a similar problem?


	5. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tells more of what really happened with Rodolphus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this has taken forever to update, life has been kicking me in the arse lately, and itll likely be a couple of weeks before i can update again.

_He shudders as he hears the booted stomp and the creaking of stairs. He curls up into a ball on the dirty mattress, shivering and not just from the cold._

_Rodolphus comes to the bottom of the steps and just stares at him, lips curling upwards slightly in a cruel sneer. It makes Draco shake even more, the way his empty eyes track his every twitch and shudder._

_"Are you ready for me, pretty?"_

_Draco nods, hating himself for it. "Yes, sir." He uncurls himself and pulls his legs up to his chest. "Please sir. Please. . ." His voice cracks, he can't say it. He knows that he will, sooner or later he will beg, but he can never say it at first, the words remain stuck in his throat like unchewed food._

_Rodolphus is on him now, lightly stroking his hairless legs, tracing tender bruises. He presses a kiss to Draco's lips, hard and full of teeth. "Please what, pretty?"_

_"Please." Is all he can manage. Rodolphus's expression twists into rage within seconds, and he slaps Draco across his face, hard enough to mark. "Please what, you stupid whore?" And in a moment Rodolphus light mood is gone, and Draco knows he's in trouble. He squeezes his eyes shut as fingers pinch the sensitive skin of is upper thighs, biting back a whimper. Another bruise will be forming. There is no inch of him left unmarred, left pure._

_"P-Please f-fuck me, Rodolphus." He stutters, and then cringes as Rodolphus pushes inside him painfully. He feels tears under his eyelids, and does his hardest not to let them fall. He gets so much angrier when he cries._

_"As you wish, Cissy." It takes everything he has not to scream._

Draco jerked awake with a cry, still half asleep when he felt hands shaking him. He flailed wildly for a moment, and then let out an 'Umf!' when he tumbled out of bed and hit the floor hard. With his heart pounding in his chest he made himself as small as possible, hoping, still half-asleep, that maybe He woke up in a good mood and won't punish him, if he's truly lucky he might even leave him alone -

"Draco darling, you're home, you're not with him -" He came back to himself properly and realised that he's not in the cellar or His bedroom, and the memories of yesterday come flooding back. He escaped, he's home, he's safe and sound, Rodolphus isn't here.

Mother was still speaking soft reassurances, however he was hardly listening. It still didn't feel real. He didn't feel real. He still hadn't quite wrapped his head around yesterday. 

"What. . . what were you dreaming about, Draco?" Mother asks gently, her gaze not quite meeting his eyes. She wears a thin smile, but it's so fragile that he fears voicing his dream would make it crumple, and he doesn't want that, so he just shrugged. "I don't remember." He lied, yet he's positive that Mother sees straight through it. Despite it, she didn't press, and instead told him to come down to breakfast, as he has to be at the Auror department at noon.

Draco glanced at his clock. Twenty minutes past ten. Damn, how long had he been asleep for? He couldn't even remember going to bed last night. He had gone upstairs after that disastrous dinner, and supposed that he must have fallen asleep straight away, even though it hadn't even been dark.

There was an aching hunger in the pit of his stomach, and so he followed Mother back down to the smaller dining table that they had eaten at last night.

Once seated, opposite Father, who nodded in greeting but said nothing, his appetite dwindled down to nothing rather quickly. His hunger was replaced with nausea at the smell of all the breakfast foods laid out upon the tabletop. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that neither of his parents had resumed eating, they seemed to be waiting for him to start. Draco wished they wouldn't. He reached out a grabbed a piece of toast and quickly stuffed it in his mouth. He managed to eat the whole piece, and was wary of Father's eyes on him the whole time.

*-*

If, even a few days ago, someone were to ask Lucius Malfoy if he believed that his beloved son and heir were still alive, he would have responded with a curt 'Of course.' and then ignore them until they understood the message and left him alone. If, however, someone was to ask him under Veritiserum whether he believed that Draco was alive, the 'No' would've been forced out of him, for he would never have voiced his biggest heartbreak. Lucius Malfoy was a man made of stone, yet on the day Draco went missing from Hogsmeade, something in him had snapped in two and never quite resealed. Perhaps it had been his heart.

No one talked about Draco. When he had first vanished the papers had gone into a riot, printing new theories almost every other day, however the years went on and Draco never returned, and he was gradually forgotten. 

The decision to officially pronounce him dead was not exactly a well-supported one, but as it was just after the war there was nothing they could do, the Ministry had had to practically rebuild itself, and Draco was no longer a priority. His son, one of the Sacred Twenty Eight, heir to the richest family in Wizarding Britain, no longer important. Declared dead without a body.

Yet, Draco sits in front of him, and he hates the part of him that wants to scream _what have you done to my son!_ watching him flinch and stumble over his words, watching him look at him like a rabbit in a trap, feeling him stiffen whenever he gets close. He knows that it's not Draco's fault, but hearing the charges had made him, a Death Eater who had killed on the name of his former Lord, want to vomit.

Abduction. Kidnapping. Captive. Abuse. Physical, mental, sexual. _Rape_.

By his own Uncle. Bellatrix had always been insane, and that insanity seemed to have spread to her choice of men. He remembered, before the First War, before Draco was even born, how Rodolphus used to watch Narcissa. His dark, beady eyes would track her every step. He was only allowed to stay in the Manor because he was her sister's husband, but there had been an Incident that had made Lucius refuse to allow him entry.

The Incident being Rodolphus pinning Narcissa, who had then been in the early stages of pregnancy, against a bookcase in the Malfoy Library. Lucius had discovered them after hearing Narcissa scream, and recent events had put the disgusting things he had been saying to her at the forefront of his mind.

_"I hope that baby's a girl, Cissy, and I hope it looks like you, then it'll be all the sweeter while she begs for me to fuck her."_

Lucius had cursed him with spells that would've given him an Azkaban sentence if the Ministry had been competent, and thrown him out of the Manor by hand (magic was a powerful tool, but sometimes there was something slightly gratifying about getting ones hands dirty). He had thought that Rodolphus was simply delusional and disgusting, but he had made the grave mistake of overlooking the man's intelligence.

He had enough intelligence to escape Azkaban without notice, to find a place within the Wizarding World where he somehow wasn't recognised; and then to wait for Draco in Hogsmeade and manipulate him into going with him. And then to keep him in his cellar for thirteen years, unbeknownst to them.

The Aurors, pathetic and useless as they are, had not found Rodolphus yet. Lucius was used to them not doing their jobs correctly, so much so that he wasn't even surprised. He had been sent an owl from the department early that morning, detailing how far along the case was, and that Draco would need to come in for another interview. He and Narcissa agreed that she would take him, and then to his Mind-Healer appointment afterwards. 

Lucius was broken out of his thoughts by Eurus arriving with the post. The great snowy owl's wings folded as she came to gracefully perch on his outstretched arm, and Narcissa fed her a piece of toast as he untied the ribbon from her packages. He sorted through them, and many of them were actually addressed to Draco. He slid them over to Narcissa, who fingered them and glanced between him and Draco, clearly silently debating whether to actually give them to him. Draco caught on after a moment, and cleared his throat.

"Is. . . are they for me?" He said in a voice that was almost a whisper. He reached out a hand for them, but stopped when Narcissa made no move to pass them to him. 

"Perhaps it would be best if we were to check them," She said carefully.

"But they. . . they were written for me!" said Draco.

"Yes, sweetheart, but-"

"I'm not a baby, they were for _me_!" He snarled suddenly as he yanked on a strand of his hair so hard that Lucius almost winced.

"Draco! Don't speak to your mother like that!" Lucius snapped back, and then realised his mistake when Draco somehow went paler and shrunk back into his chair. Narcissa attempted to lay her hand on his, but he flinched and made an awful, wretched noise like a sob. "Draco -" He began, to apologise, but Draco jumped up from his chair so quickly that it toppled behind him with a clatter. He almost ran out from the room, leaving them both surrounded by silence.

"Well done, Lucius." Narcissa said after moment. She didn't sound particularly furious, just exhausted. She sounded just how he felt. "You should go and apologise." She suggested. 

"I doubt he would want that he. . . He won't let me near him, Cissa. He acts like I'm going to hit him whenever I so much as look at him." He admitted quietly. Throughout his life he had done many awful things to many people, but he had never laid a finger on Draco. Draco was precious.

"He acts like I'm. . ." _That man. That awful, disgusting excuse of a wizard that I would murder in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Draco safe._  
Narcissa didn't say anything, just stared blankly into her tea. After a minute, she spoke again.

"I thought this would be easy. . . For some reason I thought we would get back the same boy we lost. But he hasn't even been home for a whole day and he's already. . . I don't _know_ him anymore." She whispered, and Lucius watched her eyes grow wet with tears. He laid a gentle hand on her arm, and she grasped it like a lifeline, her sharp nails leaving marks in his skin.

"We will simply have to have patience with him. Don't let him see any other letters he gets now, we'll keep them out of sight until we've read through them first and then we'll reseal them. In time he'll understand why, you know how mad some people can be. As for everything else. . . We'll have to wait." Narcissa nodded, and wiped at her eyes.

"But, Lucius, please don't shout at him again. I can't bare the way he shrinks in on himself, like he's waiting to be beaten. Do you think he. . .?" She left the question unsaid, and she could have meant any number of unthinkable things.  
  


* * *

Harry Potter was twenty six years old, and had worked in the Auror department since he was eighteen, which meant that occasionally he came into work with a hangover. But in his eight years of work his hangover had never been this bad.

He supposed it was Seamus' fault, really, as he had always been the one to try and drink Harry under the table. Harry was usually careful on work nights, but last night he had been glad to drink himself into oblivion and forget all about the awful events of previous day. 

He was regretting that now, for he hadn't even been able to forget, and had spent the night tossing and turning in bed, picturing Draco Malfoy's gaunt face surrounded by darkness. And now he had a splitting headache. Well, Davies usually kept a not-so-secret-secret supply of Hangover cures in the break room, so that's where he headed as soon as he tumbled out of the floo.

The break room was empty and blessedly quiet, and Harry pulled open one of the cupboards and shoved the mugs in it aside and grabbed a Hangover cure. He unscrewed the cap and down it in one go, and groaned softly as the potion spread through his body and his headache fizzled into nothing.

"Hey, Potter." Davies greeted as he clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Rough night?" He asked, noticing the the empty bottle in his hand. 

"You could say that." Harry said as he waved his wand and vanished the bottle. "Has anything else come up at the house?"

"Not that I know of. Malfoy's coming in for an interview at noon, so we've got an hour and a half. Do you want to go over the case notes?" 

Harry nodded followed Davies back to their desks. Harry flopped into his chair at his untidy desk, and cast a privacy charm before thinking aloud to Davies, who was sitting opposite, mug of warm tea in his hand.

"So, Draco Malfoy vanished from Hogsmeade on the thirtieth of October 1993, when he was thirteen. Aurors find hardly any evidence, and then after the war he's declared dead by the Ministry. Then thirteen years after he disappeared he escapes and is found by Hogsmeade students. And then in our initial interview Draco says that he was kept in Lestrange's cellar for thirteen years -"

"Actually," Davies cuts in, placing his mug down, "he didn't. I listened to the tapes earlier. You asked him if he had been kept in the cellar the whole time and he just agreed."

"Well, we have a witness that gave us a memory confirming that he was allowed out at least once, and several things in the house suggest he was out of the cellar often. That's where we'll lead the interview." Harry went on. He wordlessly summoned the growing file on Draco and gave it a quick flick through. He paused on one of the earlier reports and a picture of Draco in what Harry assumed was the beginning of third year grinned broadly up at him, dressed in formal robes. He was so young and carefree that Harry had trouble comparing him to the haunted man he had found yesterday.

"Hm, do you have any ideas about the thing with the robes? I mean, I get that everything about this case is a sensitive subject, but I feel the whole thing with the robes is another level of sensitive." Harry sighed.

"This case is another bloody level of sensitive. We may as well just ask him outright, but be gentle about it." The corners of Davies mouth turned upwards at that.

"That's not exactly your strong suit, is it Potter? I seem to remember you not being very gentle with those goblins when they -"

"- That was a completely different case! Besides, it's not like that goblin bloody gave two shits." Harry chuckled, and then turned quiet. "But I'm serious. Be gentle with him. I'm surprised I'm still on this case, given how we were at school. We were always fighting."

Davies took a swig of his tea while thinking, and then spat it out in disgust. "Ugh, this shite is disgusting. But yeah, you were, the whole school knew that, but yesterday he clearly wanted you to stay with him while he saw Abbott, so I think he's fine with you. Maybe Robards thought it would do him good to see a familiar face, even if it was yours."  
Harry hummed in agreement. He still had a lot of time to kill before Draco arrived for his interview so he went through the case file properly, starting with the earliest report of his absence.

**MISSING PERSON:**   
**Name: MALFOY, DRACO LUCIUS**   
**DoB: 5/6/1980**   
**Home: MALFOY MANOR, WHILTSHIRE, ENGLAND**   
**Father: MALFOY, LUCIUS ABRAXAS**   
**Mother: MALFOY (FORMELY BLACK), ESTELLE NARCISSA**   
**Date of disappearance: 30/10/1993**   
**Date found:**

The last date was left blank, and Harry flicked through again, going past physical descriptions of him, for he could chart every aspect of Draco Malfoy's face with his eyes closed (Hermione and Ron would say that for about six months after he went missing, Harry had had a bit of an obsession). He kept looking through until he found the report on his death declaration.

**30/10/1999**   
**Report to say that missing person Malfoy, Lucius Draco is to be formally declared dead without a body. Malfoy disappeared six years ago in Hogsmeade and for six years Aurors have struggled to find any solid leads on his whereabouts. Due to a significant amount of time having passed, Malfoy, Lucius Draco is legally dead.**

And then he turned to the end of the file, where he had made a hasty report yesterday.

**11/02/2007**   
**MISSING PERSON:FOUND**   
**Name: MALFOY, LUCIUS DRACO**   
**DoB: 5/6/1980**   
**Date of disappearance: 30/10/1993**   
**Date found: 11/02/2007**   
**Status: Alive**   
**Statement from Auror:**   
**Potter, Harry James: Formally missing person Draco Lucius Malfoy has been found alive. Samples prove his identity. Abduction, one suspect: Lestrange, Rodolphus. Also suspected active Death Eater. No leads on current whereabouts.**

Harry got to work filling in more details on the case, using the interviews from yesterday to build a profile of Lestrange, and of what Draco's time in captivity was like. He was so focused on it that Roger had to shove him twice to tell him that Narcissa Malfoy had arrived early with Draco, and they were waiting to be interviewed.

Harry checked his watch. It was twenty to twelve, meaning he had been working for over an hour, and they now had a profile that would be handy in the interview. Harry went alone to the waiting room to fetch Draco, as Roger wanted to set up an interview room.

Apart from the two figures sitting by the door, the waiting room was empty. Narcissa Malfoy sat stiffly in robes that would cost Harry six months worth of wages, her hair tied back neatly and elaborately, nails painted a deep red. Draco was hunched in his seat next her, and his nervousness contrasted Narcissa's confidence. Harry had thought that perhaps he would look a little better today, but he looked terrible, as if he was about to vomit at any moment. 

Narcissa Malfoy gave Draco a nudge and he quickly looked up, and then back down when he saw Harry.

"Hey, the interview room is being set up, we're not sure how long it'll take today. Do you want your mum to come with you?" Draco shook his head almost as soon as Harry finished asking, and for a second he was sure he caught a glimpse of hurt flash across Narcissa's face before she smoothed out her expression. "Darling, I'll be waiting for you when you're finished, and after you'll have your appointment with White." She raised her hand, as if to squeeze Draco's shoulder, but he stepped backwards out of her reach, not looking at her as he did. Harry thought that was odd; Draco had seemed close to her yesterday.

While leading Draco down to the interview room, Harry watched him subtly out of the corner of his eye. He noticed how he had to keep space between them because if he didn't Draco would flinch away and curl in on himself slightly. Unease stirred in the pit of his stomach. He sort of almost wished that Draco would insult him.

The interview room was different to the one used yesterday. Instead of yellowing walls and comfy, stained couches, this one was painted grey, with nothing but a table and three chairs (and a two way mirror). 

Roger had already set up the room with the relevant files, and was sitting waiting when they came in. Harry directed Draco to the chair opposite and and sat next to Roger.

"Good morning, Draco. Like yesterday this interview is being recorded. Interview with Draco Malfoy, led by Roger Malcolm Davies and Harry James Potter commencing at eleven forty-five." Roger began.

"Yesterday, we found the house. We found some. . .items in there that make us believe that there may be a few inconsistencies within your statement yesterday."

Harry relaxed back into his chair as he watched Draco carefully. When Roger mentioned the house he didn't even twitch, however when he mentioned the inconsistencies Draco ducked his head down and glanced at the door. It was only for a second, however it made Harry concerned that Draco might try to run if pushed too hard, so he stepped in. 

"Which is completely understandable, we all get things mixed up. I know I do all the time." He said, and the tension in Draco's shoulders eased slightly. 

"Right. So, Draco, were you allowed out of the cellar? We found a bedroom with some items in it that lead us to believe that you may have been allowed out of the cellar. Were you?" Roger added when Draco didn't answer.

After a few seconds of silence Draco nodded wordlessly. When neither Harry or Roger spoke he began to talk, unprompted. 

"O-Only, if I was good. If I wasn't then I would have to stay in-in the cellar. I. . . I want. . . wanted to run, but I couldn't. He used to tie me to the bed frame. If I tried he would. . ." His voice got quieter and quieter until it was barely a whisper. 

"And were you ever allowed outside?" Roger questioned, and Draco flinched silently. 

"Draco?" Harry asked. Draco twitched, and began to rock slowly. Only slightly, but both Harry and Roger saw it. They exchanged a glance, a silent question. Roger nodded.

"A neighbour to Rodolphus gave us a statement that said she recognised you from a few years ago. We don't have an exact date, but she said she saw you come out of the house with him." Harry said. 

"Only a few times." whispered Draco.

"Alright, do you know where he took you?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know. . .I don't. . . It was muggle. Muggles were everywhere."

"Did he ever leave you alone?" Roger asked bluntly.

Draco stared at him. "You. . .? You think I should have ran. Told someone. . . but I couldn't. I didn't know w-what to _do_." His voice cracked, as if he was about to cry. Harry could understand why Draco hadn't ran to a muggle for help. He didn't know them, and from school it wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that Draco had never been around muggles, so it was easy for him to understand why he hadn't reached out for help. Harry remembered the fear of being in an unfamiliar place the first time Uncle Vernon left him at platform nine and three quarters. If the Weasley's hadn't of approached him then he wasn't sure what he would have done.

"We're not thinking that, Draco. Now we know we can look into muggle areas and try to trace him in the muggle world as well." Harry reassured him. Somehow, despite half of the Ministry looking for him Rodolphus had evaded them in Wizarding Britain, so it made sense for him to be in the muggle world, hiding among those he hated. It was the last place you would look.

Roger then waved his wand and a piece of crumpled paper floated down onto the table in front of Draco. Harry recognised it as the picture they found in the cellar.

"Was there anyone else in the cellar with you? This looks like a child's drawing, doesn't it?" Roger said. Draco looked at it blankly.

"No! It was just me." He said quickly, not taking his eyes off the drawing. Harry found that odd, how quickly he responded, as if it was a knee jerk reaction. Most of the time, was suspects spoke that way, it indicated that they were lying.

"Really? I mean it's odd, isn't it? That looks like a little kids drawn it. And that's you there, and then Lestrange at the top of the stairs." Roger tapped the picture as he spoke.

"There was no one else." Draco mumbled so quietly Harry had to strain to hear him. Roger sighed. 

"I want to believe you, I _really_ do. But the thing is, you left out important details yesterday, and this is just a bit too strange -"

"Did you ever hear voices in the house? Ones that didn't sound like Lestrange?" Harry interrupted Roger "I suppose that maybe you didn't know of any children, but maybe one saw you in the house. We'll check both our and muggle records for missing children that roughly match that description, but if you could just tell us anything."  
Draco had become hunched over in his chair during Roger's rant, and he had twisted himself around until he was facing the door, in an attempt to escape their gazes. He look his head, and Harry realized that he was trembling. He swallowed audibly. "I don't - don't know." 

"Harry, a word outside please?" Roger requested suddenly, trying and failing to hide his anger. 

Outside, Harry shut the door gently and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn't usual that he and Roger disagreed on something, but he didn't think the blunt way Roger had questioned Draco was the correct way to go about it, so he said so.

"Harry, Lestrange is still out there!" Roger hissed. 

"Don't you think I know that?! But look at how he reacted in there! The angrier you get the more he clams up! Besides, they're still taking magical signatures from the house, and were doing the muggle DNA as well, so if there was someone else in the house, you'll know about it that way!" Harry almost shouted in a very unprofessional manner. Roger looked as if he was about to shout back when a paper airplane memo flew down to them and jabbed Harry in the neck until he grabbed it and unfolded it.  
It contained only a short sentence, but it was enough for Harry to feel as if the floor had just been dropped out from under him. Roger noticed, because he softened. "What is it?"

Harry swallowed. "A child's been snatched from Diagon Alley. Witnesses matched Lestrange as a suspect."

Roger paled. "Oh my fucking god." He whispered. At that moment, Cresswell rounded the corner and shouted to them.

"Potter, Davies! So you've heard then? Before you do anything, we've been looking at magical signatures and any signs of blood and things such as that, and we're still making an actual report but well. . . We tested the cellar for blood, and it lit up like a fucking muggle Christmas tree."

"What do you mean?" Roger asked. Harry was already certain he knew where Cresswell was going with this, and felt sickened. 

"The amount of blood we found suggests that, well. . . It suggests that someone was killed in that cellar. I'm not sure how recently, so there is a chance your Draco doesn't even know about it, but we're certain that Lestrange killed at least one person in that house."

"And that's not all." Cresswell went on grimly, and Harry was puzzled as to how much more bad news this case was capable of giving. 

"We traced the magical signatures in the house, and found that they matched two people on Azkaban's records. Rodolphus Lestrange and Rabastan Lestrange." Cresswell finished.

"He said that he was fucking alone in that house." Harry muttered to himself.

"Well, he was lying." Roger replied. Harry turned to him. 

"I still don't entirely agree with the way you interviewed him, but try to get anything else out of him. I need to speak to Robards about this. . . that poor fucking kid. Cresswell, has the kid been identified?" He said as he began to walk towards Robards office, leaving Roger to finish the interview alone. Cresswell was still talking, but Harry was only half listening. He thought of Draco, manipulated and coerced into going with Lestrange, and then of a faceless child being snatched it Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. . . I was debating where to leave this chapter off and felt like here was a good place to leave it. I was a bit hesitant as to how to do Lucius pov but I think it went okay. And well...Rodolphus is deranged as usual.
> 
> Thanks for reading.  
> (find me on tumblr as dracopetal)


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